


Angels and Demons

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bartender Sam Winchester, Bottom Dean Winchester, Bottom Dean Winchester/Top Sam Winchester, First Time, M/M, Piano Bar, Rimming, Top Sam Winchester, bar au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-08-02 00:40:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16295000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: So I promised that someone I would write a story with a dominant, toppy Sam. Dean and Sam as bartenders together was requested, so this story was born.It's a bar AU, but it's just like canon Supernatural, except that instead of the apocalypse, Michael and Lucifer play in a dueling piano bar, Sam and Dean were separated when young and Bobby Singer once owned a dive bar in Palo Alto, rather than a salvage yard in South Dakota. So exactly like canon, right?





	Angels and Demons

Sam was doing a lot of the pre-evening prep work, when the man walked through the door and grabbed the 'help wanted' sign from the window. Sam took in the guy, looking him over quickly, liking the look of his broad shoulders. Strong looking, but not too muscle bound. The sort of guy they needed around here, to do the kind of stuff Sam was doing right now- hauling racks of glasses from the dish room in the back, stacking them at ready, stocking bottles, changing out the kegs for the taps. If they could get a good bar back, that'd free up Sam to do the kind of work he really wanted to do around the bar, like make up his own infused simple syrups and other mixers, maybe even actually get around to redoing the cocktail list like he always was saying he was going to. He'd taken those classes in mixology last year and still hadn't gotten around to putting them to much use, just because he was busy hauling cases of Bud and Corona up from the basement storage room.

Not that you could do much mixology or craft cocktails in a place like Angels and Demons. Lot of the ladies who came in the door did like their syrup-y sweet lemon drop martinis, chocotinis and appletinis and got pouty if they couldn't have them. A lot of the rest of the crowd wanted their cheap, shitty beer. Then there was the crowd there for shooters and nothing else. It got old pretty fast, setting up Purple Nurples and Orgasms for current and former sorority girls who hadn't grown up yet, but it paid the bills and kept the doors open.

The guy put the help wanted sign on the counter and looked direct into Sam's eyes. The guy's eyes were green, deep, kind of mossy green. He was kind of pretty, Sam thought. Those lips were nice, real pretty. They'd look even nicer wrapped around his cock, the thought was unbidden and Sam squashed it down hard. This guy was probably straight and he was here applying for work. And if Sam liked the way he sounded and gave him the job, it'd been even more impossible, because hadn't he learned the hard way that it was a mistake to sleep with people who worked at the bar? Look at Ruby and what a hot mess that had turned out to be. 

"Hi, who do I talk to about this job?" the guy asked. His voice was low, almost gravelly. It went straight to Sam's cock and said how do you do. 

"That'd be me," Sam said, cramming down his dick's interest in this guy. At least Sam had the bar between him and the guy. He held out his hand over the glossy surface of the bar top and said, "Sam Winchester."

The guy shook his hand. His grip was strong but he wasn't one of those guys that tried to squeeze you until it hurt. His grip was just firm, his hand muscular and warm. 

"Dean Harvelle," the guy said. "I'm looking for something on evenings, weekends, that kind of thing. I really gotta buckle down and get my classes done this year, but I also gotta eat."

"You a student then?" Sam asked. The guy looked a little old for the typical student type, also a little more normal, watches football on Monday night type rather than the brainiac type from the local U. 

"Yeah, kind of. I'm sort of a eighth-year senior. Had to take a lot of time off to help my mom, with, uh, things. But Stanford's threatening to boot me out if I don't finish my degree this year."

"This is hard work. Lot of lifting, carrying heavy things. Lot of time spent on your feet. I'm not looking for a bartender. I'm looking for a bar back."

"Yeah, I know the drill. My mom owns a place called the Roadhouse, out in Nebraska. I've been hauling cases of cheap, shitty beer since I could lift one."

"You've got bartending experience then?"

"Not at a place like this," Dean said. "Not mixed drinks really. The average Roadhouse customer would rip off your head for suggesting he might like a cosmopolitan. But I've been pulling drafts and pouring shots since I was legal."

"If you work out, I might let you pick up some weeknight bar shifts, ease you into it," Sam said, not sure why, other than he didn't want this guy to go work someplace else for some reason. "Can you start tonight? Like, now? Alfie, the guy I thought I had lined up for tonight flaked on me."

"You the manager then?" Dean asked, not saying yes, not saying no.

"Owner. Manager. Head bartender. Chief bottlewasher," Sam said. "So, you in or not?"

"I'm in," Dean said. 

"I'll get your uniform then. Follow me," Sam said. "Jeans for your bottom half. Those jeans are okay for tonight, but after this, get a pair of dark wash, no holes, no acid wash or fading, not boot cut unless you're actually wearing boots. Black shoes, your choice. Something for standing eight hours or more in. I give you three t-shirts to start, after that, they're ten bucks each."

They were in the small storage room and Sam sized the guy up before digging into the box of t-shirts. He pulled out a large, then a medium, just to be on the safe side. "Try this on for size," he said, holding out the large.

"Now?" 

"Yeah," Sam said. He just wanted to see if the shirt fit the right way. Nothing whatsoever to do with him wanting to see the guy's bare chest. Not at all. 

Dean shrugged and pulled off his bulky plaid over-shirt, then the oversize gray henley he wore under that, but not the sleeveless undershirt he wore under that. He pulled the t-shirt on over the undershirt and it fit like a guy would normally wear a t-shirt. Sam shook his head and passed the medium over to Dean. 

"This is a medium," Dean said. "I normally wear extra-large."

"Not here," Sam said. "Try it on."

So, Dean pulled the first shirt off and pulled the medium over his head. Like Sam expected, the shirt was molded to the guy's torso, skin tight just about. And that was fine, because he certainly had the body for it. Nice, tight abs, just the hint of a six pack. Nice shoulders, nice arms. 

"Jesus," Dean said. "I feel exposed. Is this some kind of sexual harassment or something?"

"It's for the tips," Sam explained. "We get a lot of ladies' night outs, lot of bachelorettes, that kind of thing. And we offer our customers a little bit of an inspirational view. It makes for better business. More drink orders, better tips."

"Oh, God! So, this place is like Hooters, but for chicks?"

"Something like that," Sam agreed. 

Dean cracked a smile that brightened his whole face for a minute and said, "Awesome!"

That tended to be the reaction of the straight male wait staff when they'd realized what the bar was like. Right up until half-way into the first busy night. Most of them didn't make it beyond the first week. The wait staff that made it tended to be either gay or bisexual, used to being the object of sexual attraction, rather than the subject, or actors and other performers, used, at least, to having eyes on them. One of his best waiters was a former ballet dancer, thoroughly heterosexual, but used to having a critical eye on his body.

As for this place, well, it wasn't exactly like Hooters. Sam liked to think it was a lot more classy than that. The uniforms he required his all male wait staff to wear weren't nearly that skimpy. But the staff themselves had been picked for their good looks, broad shoulders and tight abs. They didn't last though, unless they proved that they could keep up a light flirtation with even the most homely of birthday girl or bride to be. They had to be able to make the ladies laugh and smile.

The fact that it was a dueling piano bar was the gimmick that got the women in the door. It seemed a safe enough thing they could tell their boyfriends and husbands about. And technically, nothing they were doing here was nearly as sleazy as went on at Hooters. Just handsome guys in tight t-shirts and tight jeans smiling big at their customers and maybe flirting just a little.

It'd been his best friend Jess' idea, really. It wasn't that she objected to the idea of places like Hooters or the Tilted Kilt, it was that there was no place equivalent for women to go and ogle at men, maybe have a chance to tuck a tip into the back pocket of a tight pair of jeans. Then Uncle Bobby had offered him this sad shell of a bar for next to nothing, so he and Jess had started the place up, using money she got from her dad and a business plan she'd written for a class. But then the fire had happened, burning down Jess's shithole apartment building, with her and nine other students and former students trapped inside it. He'd been left with the bar by himself. If it hadn't already been making money by then and he hadn't been so good at running it, he might have been tempted to just shut it down.

He gave Dean the basic gist of things, and specifics, like how much he was paying per hour, how much the bar back was tipped out. Sam suggested that his jeans for the next shift be a lot tighter than the current pair and said that the job wouldn't bring him too much into direct contact with the customers, but if it did, that it was expected that he'd be friendly, flirty encouraged, but not required. 

"Okay," Sam said, finally. "Staff meeting at four-thirty. The list on the clipboard there will tell you how much of what I expect stocked before then. I'll be back to check on you at four. Until then, I'll let you get to it. I'll be in the kitchen."

Then Sam went to the kitchen to try and forget about the deep emerald eyes of his latest hire. As he entered the room, Balthazar pointed a ten inch chef's knife at him and said, "Out. You. Out of my kitchen."

A bit temperamental, his cook. Liked to call himself a chef and seemed to forget at times that this was a bar that served a bit of food and not a gastropub. Even so, the man's duck fat frites and filet medallions were something like heaven, so Sam forgave a lot. Some people, at least, were starting to come for the food, not just the entertainment and booze. 

"Me owner, you employee. My kitchen," Sam said, patiently. "Remember now?"

"What did you want, Winchester? Come to fiddle with your sour mix again? By the time the ladies have had their second Tom Collins, they can't taste the difference. You might as well go with the bottled mix."

"By the time they've had enough drinks, they can't tell the difference between McDonald's fries and your hand cuts, so why don't you save the bother and just get the big bags of ready to fry ones from the food service company?"

"Touché," Balthazar said, going back to his chopping. The knife flashed and the onions turned themselves into dice without Balthazar having to looking down at his hands. "Just stay out of my way. I'm behind in my mise en place. That kid Kevin you hired to do prep has the nerve to call me and tell me he has an important exam on Monday and he can't come in at all this weekend. That's what you get for hiring students. You let me pick the next one. I have a better sense for these things."

"Except for the fact that I'm still paying off that fine to the INS from the last time you picked an employee," Sam retorted, grabbing a big pot and heading for the cooler for herbs and citrus fruits. 

"I do still miss Jose. Hell of a line cook," Balthazar said. "How do you have time to be back here anyway?"

"I just hired a bar back," Sam said. 

And so it went, the prep for an expected busy Friday evening. Employees filtered in one by one. They came by to say hi to Sam before they got to their stations. He juiced lemons, boiled down sugar water for simple syrup, filtered out the herbs he'd infused into it. 

"Do you know where I can get my hands on rose water? I was thinking of making orgeat," Sam said to Balthazar. 

"Oregat? Nobody drinks cocktails with orgeat in them any more."

"Mai Tais? I want to put Mai Tais on my cocktail list."

Eventually it was nearly four and Sam had to stop his work. He cleaned up, stashed his bottled syrups in the back-up bar cooler and went to see how Dean was getting on, see if he needed any help getting everything up and placed where it needed to be. He discovered Dean had already gotten everything on the list, had broken down all his boxes, taken them out to the recycling dumpster and was sweeping in the storage room.

"Hey, you got time to lean, you got time to clean," Dean said. "At least that's what Mom said."

Sam did a quick spot check of his work and was pleased. Everything was set just like he liked it. Good prep made for, not exactly easy, but easier times when the shit was hitting the fan, like when it was nine thirty and the bar was three deep with women needing their cosmos now, before they could start to have a good time. 

"Nice work," Sam admitted, grudgingly. "Why don't you take a quick break until the staff meeting in half an hour. After that, we pretty much don't stop until well after last call."

"You mind if I get a pepsi from the bar?" Dean asked. 

"You don't want a beer?" 

"I don't drink," Dean said. "Seen too many drunks. Dad was a drunk."

"Mine too. Never stopped me," Sam said, thinking of John Winchester's infamous binges, ever since the house fire that claimed Sam's mother and his big brother. They were bad enough that he'd been bounced around a bit, in and out of foster care, until he ended up with Uncle Bobby here in Palo Alto. Once he'd landed with Bobby, his life had stabilized and Bobby had more than made up for a drunk, absent and possibly crazy father. He realized he'd trailed off and had been thinking rather than talking, so he said. "Go on, get what you want from the bar. We work hard here. We drink whatever we want unless I determine there's some kind of problem."

So, they moved it to the bar proper, Dean sitting on the customer side with his soft drink, Sam just fussing around the server side, making sure everything was exactly where he liked it. He discovered that Dean had already cut up the lime and lemon twists, and not just but done it exactly the way Sam preferred, thin, not too thin, and stocked plenty of whole oranges, lemons and limes too. 

"So, what's your story?" Sam asked, as he worked.

"Nothing exciting," Dean said. 

"I mean, how'd you end up at Stanford, coming from Nebraska? And talk Stanford into letting you take eight years for a four year degree. Must be a story or two there."

For a moment, Dean's face grew both hard and thoughtful, as if there were a whole lot of story there, but nothing he was going to say anything about. As a bartender, Sam recognized the look of someone itching to spill their guts and this was definitely the look of someone with a lot of guts to spill and itching to do anything but spill them. 

Then surprisingly enough, he did spill them, just a little, "I just owe a lot to Ellen, you know. My mom. She took me in when no one else would and she kind of fixed me. I was found wandering in a Nebraska field, mute and kind of broken, bounced in and out of different foster homes for three years until I landed at Ellen's. Didn't speak a word until I'd been there a year. When I was twelve, Dad, her husband, tells her it's me or him, that I've got to go. He was the one who went. So, if Ellen calls, says she needs me, I go."

"I know the feeling. My Uncle Bobby fixed me," Sam admitted. "Maybe I wasn't as broken as you, but my dad knocked me around a bunch. Literally and metaphorically."

"To bad beginnings, eh?" Dean said, raising his glass of soda, but before anything more could be said, all of a sudden Cas had entered the room, bolted across it, and thrown himself into the arms of a very surprised Dean, who was obviously restraining himself heroically from reacting at all.

"Dean? Oh, God, Dean! It's been forever. What are you doing here?"

"Cas?" Dean looked puzzled and he was doing his best to put Cas off, even though Cas was doing his best limpet imitation.

"I take it you two know each other?" Sam asked.

"Sam, this is Dean. The Dean," Cas explained. 

"As in, Dean, the one that got away, Dean?" Sam asked. They'd all heard about Dean from Cas. The perfect man, supposedly, who Cas had met, found a profound connection with, fallen in love forever with and had his heart broken by in one short semester. "Are we going to have issues here? Because you know I don't like to have these kind of issues among the wait staff, Cas."

"No, no issues," Cas said. "I'm over him."

"Wait? I'm the one that got away?" Dean snickered, amusement dawning in his eyes. "I thought I was three or four kind of nice dates before I had to go back to Nebraska for the rest of the semester."

But there wasn't any more time. It was time for the staff meeting, a lot of ground to cover before doors opened at five, not to mention he still had to do drawers. 

The small, but extremely attractive staff gathered around the bar. "Okay, everyone, new hire, first day. This is Dean, our bar back."

Everyone murmured a greeting. "Dean, I guess you know Cas. But here's the rest of everyone."

Then Sam introduced them one by one. There was Michael, a blond kid, just barely legal enough to be in here, but with magic hands at the piano, and Luke, old compared to the other staff members. He was a little sarcastic, a little smirky, but he could play just about anything, had never been stumped by a customer request, and he cheerfully played "Piano Man" and "I Will Survive" about five or six times a night, to accompany the tipsy groups of ladies singing along. 

Then there was Gabe, a little shorter than his average hire, but cocky, in a good kind of way, and could make any group of women shriek with laughter, leave them clutching each other, bent double. There was Ben, the former ballet dancer. Pete, supposedly an actor, but hadn't done a show since he'd started here. Though most of the staff, himself included, had a tattoo or three, Frankie had the most tattoos of any of them, with two full sleeves, colorful Japanese style, with koi and cherry blossoms on one arm, tigers and dragons on the other. He was also kind of skinny compared to Sam's other waiters, but there were definitely women who liked the hipster boys who wore smaller sized jeans than they did. Then there was Cas, who could be a little awkward, but was just the most freaking gorgeous person Sam had ever laid his eyes on, with clear blue eyes and hair that never failed to look amazing no matter how rumpled it was. Sex hair, Sam had overheard one of the regulars call it. Despite his recognition that Cas was, objectively speaking, gorgeous, Sam had never been attracted to him. 

That made up the front of the house. Balthazar's staff had come in too- Meg, Naomi and Lilith. 

Introductions covered, Sam went on, "Okay, so we've got four big table reservations for bachelorettes. Gabe, you get the Malinsky party. They're doing bottle service, so it should be easy."

And so on, Sam divided up the lucrative reserved tables and other spots as fairly as he could between the five waiters. Cas didn't get a reserved table, but he got the standing area near the pianos, a place that seemed to be the favored place of girls ready to party and loose with their wallets. Floor split up, Balthazar got a minute or two to cover his food specials for the night. 

Meeting over, the waiters scattered, to do those last minute things before opening. Sam pulled off his over-shirt, revealing that he, too, wore one of the uniform t-shirts that looked like it'd been poured onto him. Sam's shirt was a large, but it fit him the same way Dean's medium fit him. 

Dean wolf-whistled at the sight, and Sam felt himself fluster, just a little, under the scrutiny of those green eyes and that smile. "You must spend every minute you're not here working out," Dean said. 

Luckily, Cas said, "Don't flirt with the boss, Dean. He doesn't like it. Won't do you any good anyway. He doesn't sleep with anyone who works here."

"Not since Ruby, anyway," Pete said. 

"Stations, people," Sam said, firmly, indicating that any gossip about his sex life was off topic. Before long, it was opening time and the first of the crowds started drifting in. The early crowds were quieter, drawn here more by Balthazar's talents in the kitchen than anything, not that Sam didn't have a slow but steady demand for drinks from the bar, but it was mostly pouring wine, grabbing beers, less about mixing drinks. Dean was perfect, unobtrusively restocking behind him as needed, bussing dishes from the tables without even having to be asked. 

He did hear Dean asking Cas, during a slow spell, "Who was Ruby?"

Frankie happened to be nearby and he said, "Ten pounds of crazy in a five pound sack."

"She used to sing here," Sam hear Cas explain. "Torch songs, back when it was just her and Luke, before Sam came up with the idea of dueling pianos and found Michael. She and Sam had a thing and it ended badly. That's all, really."

Ever since then, Sam had had two hard and fast rules- never sleep with anyone who worked for him and never sleep with anyone crazier than himself. The chick had actually believed she really was a demon, or rather, that she was possessed by one. Always claiming that she could prove it, but she never did, of course, because demons? Not any more real than the Angels that were the other part of bar's name. 

Slowly, as the evening progressed, they got busier and busier, until suddenly, the bar was three deep in ladies, he had about fifteen tickets for cocktails from the tables, and Sam was totally in the weeds. Like lost deep in them, in a way that never happened to him. Then suddenly, Dean was there beside him, pulling beers out of the coolers, smoothly, efficiently. He grabbed any orders for simple things- poured shots neatly, quickly pulled drafts, picked up pretty much anything that wasn't a mixed drink, so Sam caught up quickly. Dean was just there, doing what needed to be done, without having to be asked, Sam just had to give him a look and Dean would make an almost nod and then he was moving. It was like they'd worked together for years. It was like an almost perfect partnership behind the bar. They never ran into each other, were never where the other needed to be. It was just smooth. And perfect. Sam knew from that moment, he never wanted anyone else with him behind the bar, especially not on a prime night like tonight. 

Off, in the distance, if he'd had attention for it, he could sort of hear that Luke and Michael had come back from their set break and were doing something magical at their respective pianos. Gabe had the Malinsky bride in stitches, along with her bridal party. The next time Sam glanced up, he saw some woman tuck a five dollar bill into Cas's back pocket and give his ass a light smack. Pete had pulled up a chair to a group of women to take their orders, just like he was one of their best girlfriends. In short, it had suddenly become the perfect night at Angels and Demons, the kind of night that Sam loved- where they were getting slammed, but were banging out the orders one after another just as fast. Where every little thing was just right, where it was like a dance, where the minutes just slipped away and suddenly it was eleven o'clock and the place was packed and the money just flowed like water. You could hardly hear the thunder of the piano over the roar of the crowds from here. 

One of the women getting a bucket of beers for her table beckoned to Dean after he'd handed it to her and she said, "You're new here, sweetie. Come here, I've got something for you."

Dean had leaned closer, smile on his handsome face, one that suddenly Sam wished were directed at him and only him. The woman, pretty enough in an expected kind of way, with bottle red hair and dark, dark eyebrows, so you knew that the drapes didn't match the carpet, so to speak, folded a small handful of bills and tucked them into the little pocket on the front of Dean's t-shirt, perhaps lingering just a second too long. 

"Well, thank you, darlin'," Dean said, standing up straight again. "Let me know if there's anything else I can do ya for."

"I'll definitely let you know," she said, looking over her shoulder as she walked way with her bucket of Buds. 

Sam found himself scowling for some reason, a burning knot inside his chest. He plastered a neutral look on his face as poured cognac and triple sec into a shaker for a sidecar. Then the knot in his chest relaxed a little bit as he saw Dean turn that exact same smile onto a chubby forty-something- year old woman with stringy hair, wearing mom jeans and shiny, new white gym shoes. Dean hadn't been flirting with the bottle redhead. Or rather, he had, but not in a way that meant anything, Sam told himself. He'd been told to be friendly to the customers and he was. That was all. 

Sam built three cocktails- a hurricane, an old-fashioned and yet another cosmopolitan, all on autopilot, while contemplating Dean, watching his graceful yet economical motion as he grabbed glasses, filled them, took money, rang it into the register, tucked the tips into the big jar near the register. It took Sam another cosmo and a fuzzy navel after that to realize something- that he was going to break his number one rule, and was going to do it in a big way. He just hoped that he wasn't also going to have to break rule number two at the same time. 

 

***

Dean was aware of Sam's eyes on him the whole time they worked to clear the back up. At first, he thought the big man was just watching him to see how he was doing, that he was performing well and treating the ladies right. But it wasn't that, Dean realized. That look wasn't a shrewd employer evaluating his new hire. It was desire. Dean was certain of it. Sam wanted him. 

So Dean started to put on a little show for him, flirting extra hard with the customers, letting them get a little handsy even. It was all good and Sam was eating it up, to the point where Dean thought he might have to dial it back a bit. It was slowing Sam's work with the shaker down, to the point where Cas came up to the bar and demanded, "Where's the order for table ten? They've been waiting ten minutes for their cosmos."

"Uh," Sam blinked, then said, "Right up, Cas."

"I'll get the other one," Dean said, grabbing a clean glass and the shaker top. He'd watched Sam make enough of these so far this evening, to the point where he'd wondered if wouldn't have been a better idea to just batch the stuff and shake it over ice as needed, rather than to build one each time. Vodka, triple sec, cranberry, lime, ice, shake, strain into martini glass, twist of orange rubbed on the glass edge. Sam, of course, was done long before Dean was, experience guiding his hands, but Cas was still walking away with the drinks in minutes and Dean's at least looked as good as Sam's. 

"Have you thought about batching that shit?" Dean asked as he gathered up used barware, loaded it into the bus tub. "You've made eighteen in the last three hours. Save you a ton of time."

"I don't use mixes if I can help it," Sam said. They were having a lull, so Dean especially, was using the time to catch up and reset. 

"Not talking mixes. Make it up before the crowds get here, in gallon containers or whatever," Dean said. He did the calculations in his head quickly. "Fourty ounces Stoli, ten triple sec, fifteen cranberry juice, five lime. Keep it in the cooler. Twenty servings, which I'm sure you go through in a night, easy."

"Double that on a good night. You're a clever guy, Dean," Sam said, grinning as he reached for the bottle of Stoli, to pour yet another cosmo. "I think I'll keep you."

"Glad to hear it, boss," Dean said, as he grabbed a full bus tub to run back to the dish room. 

Dean grabbed a couple of racks of clean glasses to haul up to the bar. He stopped just short of the bar though, to spare a moment to appreciate the magnificent sight of Sam Winchester, in action. It was definitely something that you should take the time to enjoy, like the view over the grand canyon or a Rembrandt in a museum. The guy was just that gorgeous. You'd think a guy that tall, that big would be slow, but he wasn't. He moved with an almost lazy speed that was never hurry, but somehow got the motion done just faster than it should have been done. There was just an easy grace to the way the guy moved, muscles rippling and clearly visible under the tight t-shirt. He wore his hair a little longer than Dean would have said he liked in a guy, but it was right on him and it moved and flowed as he moved. 

Best impulse he'd ever had, Dean thought, deciding to come in to the empty bar earlier this after on the basis of the help wanted sign in the window. Never mind the boss, he liked the work. Though the trappings were different, fancier, this place kind of reminded him of the Roadhouse on its busiest nights, the same buzzing energy, the same will of the customers to just throw themselves into enjoying themselves. 

Eventually, the crowds trickled out, until it was only the Malinsky party and it was just about last call anyway. The bride had somehow managed to wedge herself onto the piano bench next to Luke, the older of the two piano players and they were playing "Heart and Soul" together. Only, while the bride plinked along like a grade schooler at piano lessons, Luke just did some gorgeous improvisations around her teetering melody line. Really, the man played like the Devil and that was just all there was to it. He'd been playing something like eight hours, with only a couple of brief set breaks and Dean was pretty sure if a mere mortal tried something like that, his hands would fall off. As for Dean, he was starting to get to that point of the evening where he was feeling like he'd been ridden hard and not even had the chance to get put away wet. 

Then, finally, it was last call and the straggling bachelorette party was gently prompted out the door and it was locked behind them. They turned the lights back up to full brightness. Dean was already cleaning by that point, bussing tables of their last empty glasses, the stray plates from kitchen service. Everyone but Michael and Luke pitched in to get the place into shape, Dean noticed, and he was glad of that, because without too much effort or time, they were suddenly putting the last chair up on the last table and things were looking pretty much like the place had been put to bed. The waiters, including Cas who'd been hinting pretty hard that he'd like to pick up where they'd left off, were planning to go out for another couple of hours at this late night bar down the street they knew and Cas all but begged him to go with. Balthazar and the girls from the kitchen were going to join them. 

"Another night, maybe," Dean said, knowing that there wouldn't be another night. It was just too easy to drink and party away your tips that way. Too easy to act stupid. Well, not that he didn't have what might be a pretty spectacular kind of stupid planned for the rest of his evening. But at least it'd be his own stupid and his own crash and burn if it didn't work out and he was pretty sure about the looks he'd seen answering his own from Sam.

As the other guys were trooping out, Sam approached him, handed him a thick wad of bills. "Your tips for the night," he said. "You earned them."

Dean fanned out the money. Mostly grubby singles, handful of fives, some twenties. He made a quick estimation. Nearly two hundred and fifty, roundabouts. "Awesome!" said Dean, happily, rolling it up and shoving it into the front pocked of his jeans. "Last time I made that much in a single night, I was stripping."

"You're a stripper?" Sam asked, his forehead raising up until it wrinkled like a washboard.

"I was," Dean said. "I'm getting too old to play the college student doing it to earn tutition though."

He suddenly realized that he was alone in the bar with Sam and that it was that time where rubber had to hit the road. The big space, not to long ago filled with bustle and sound, echoed around them. You could almost still hear the pianos reverberating through the place. They looked each other in the eye, a silent communication, a little lift of the eyebrow as if a question was being asked, a blink of the eye all the answer that was needed, then suddenly Sam was approaching him and Dean was waltzing right into his arms. And they collided together like two heavenly bodies under the inextricable constant of gravity and it was just as big and just as spectacular as two galaxies colliding. 

Sam's lips were smooth and Dean had to lift his face up to meet them and Sam had to bend down a little, but that was good. Dean liked guys who could make him feel small and there weren't many of them. Sam Winchester was one long drink of water. His arms went around Sam's neck, his hand on the back of Sam's head. Sam's mouth tasted of beer and cigarettes, and now that he was closer to him, he could smell the faint whiff of cigarettes lingering around Sam, but he didn't care. This was glorious. This was the best night ever, as far as Dean was concerned. He just had a great payday. He had a massive Adonis in his arms. They were going to screw, very shortly. 

For the moment, he controlled the kiss, then suddenly, he didn't. Sam's hands were on his cheeks and they were huge, those hands. Actually, they spanned from his eye sockets to his jawline, beyond that a little even, up to his temples. But it was more what Sam did with his mouth that controlled the kiss. It became demanding, hard. It wanted things from Dean, it made him moan and made his knees turn to water. It was okay that that mouth wanted things from him, because Dean wanted to give them. Hell, he wanted to give it up.

Because it did not matter that Dean did not bottom. Suddenly it was a foregone conclusion that he would. Sam's leg insinuated itself between Dean's legs and he suddenly found himself backed up against the bar. Sam broke off the kiss long enough to pull Dean's uniform t-shirt over his head in one smooth, practiced movement. That didn't bare his chest though. He still had on his undershirt and Sam started grabbing his nipples through the thin cloth, twisting and tugging just a little, just enough to get them hard and make him pant. Make his dick stand up straight in his jeans. Dean reached for Sam's shirt, to similarly tug it off, but he was stopped. 

"Nuh-uh," Sam said. "You're a tease, aren't you? Been putting on a show for me all night, haven't you?"

"Not a tease," Dean said. "Anything you see here is here for the taking. It's all on offer. All you gotta do is grab it."

With that, Sam rushed him again. He didn't exactly throw Dean against the bar, but he was kind of manhandled so he was belly first against the shiny wood and there was Sam pressing him up against it, grinding his hips against Dean's ass, so that in turn, Dean was grinding his dick up against the bar. He wanted more, needed more, a more direct touch. He hoped that Sam was going to do something about that, because he was too incoherent to say anything or do anything other than let himself be handled like this. But at the moment Sam was too busy doing something diabolical to Dean's earlobe and the side of his neck just adjacent to the earlobe. Those huge mitts of his had made their way to Dean's nipples again, rolling them between his fingertips, pulling them, pinching them. Dean always would have said he wasn't particularly into having his nips played with, but he was definitely reconsidering his position on that. 

"Jesus. Please," Dean muttered.

"Please what?"

"Just please."

"Okay," Sam said, then he sank to his knees. 

For a moment, Dean thought Sam was going to blow him and he tried to turn around, but Sam wouldn't let him. Still, in a matter of seconds, Dean's jeans were puddling on the floor around his feet, even before Dean remembered what kind of underwear he'd put on today. Dean was temporarily mortified and afraid he'd messed this up before he'd even really gotten started. Sam had been rendered temporarily speechless. Then his eyes seemed to twinkle with desire and he spoke.

"Nice," Sam said, roughly, lust in his voice. "Going to try and tell me it's because they're more comfortable than boxers?"

"Nope," Dean said, with a smirk "I just like 'em."

Then Sam hooked his thumbs into the silky and lacy pink hipster panties that Dean wore and he tugged them down, slowly, so that the top elastic dragged torturously against Dean's cock. Then Sam was spreading Dean's ass cheeks by hand and he was pressing his face right up in there, starting with the flat of tongue being lavished upon Dean's hole. Sam pulled him apart even more and pushed his face up deep in there. It wasn't that Dean had never had been rimmed before, but never quite so enthusiastically as Sam was doing it. The guy was really eating him out, sticking his tongue up into places that Dean had never really been touched before. It was turning Dean into an incoherent, needy mess. His cock was leaking pre-come and so hard it almost hurt and it hadn't even really been touched yet. 

He tried to talk, tried to get it together to ask for more, tried to let Sam know that he wanted, no, needed to come. Nothing more sensible than, "Please," came out and Dean leaned against the bar top, resting his head on his arms, understanding that he was just going to have to ride this one out, that he'd hopped on a speeding freight train and Sam was just going to go where he was going to go. Dean was just along for the ride. 

Finally, Sam seemed to have enough of Dean's ass. He'd had his tongue and two of fingers up in there, working them in and out and apart. He was prepping Dean. 

"Almost ready. I've got lube and condoms in my office," Sam said. 

The office was a former storage closet just barely big enough for a big desk and chair. The condoms and lube were in in Sam's gym bag. Somehow, Sam had gotten naked too and Dean finally got a gander at the huge cock that he was going to be impaled on in a short while. Not that thick, but eight proud inches, uncut, springing out from a thick thatch of dark brown hair. It didn't seem that huge compared to Sam's Sasquatch sized body, it was big enough in absolute terms, bigger than anything Dean had had inside him before for sure. Dean watched in fascination as Sam put the condom on himself. The snap of the lube cap, then Sam dripped a few drops of lube into the tip of the rolled condom. He pulled back his foreskin, revealing the cock head. Sam expertly rolled the condom onto himself, stroked himself a few times, as if testing if he was ready. Then he bent Dean over a cluttered, invoice covered desk. His fingers invaded Dean again, affirming that Dean was as ready for this as he'd ever be, that he was open enough. He was, mostly, but it stretched and burned as Sam slid home. It was slow, but forceful, his entry into Dean, causing Dean to curse under his breath and not just from pain. Sam slid out again and his dick hit Dean's sweet spot in just the right away, causing him to gasp in pleasure and scrabble for the edge of the desk, to brace himself. Sam learned quickly what the right angle was, where that sweet spot hid, because he was soon pounding it relentlessly, leaving Dean feeling like something between pudding and a coil of electrified wire.

Dean was reminded that he didn't bottom, not most of the time anyways, not because he didn't like it. He liked it all too well. Like now, it left him a gibbering, needy mess and what Dean hated more than anything was not feeling in control, especially of himself. But with Sam it was different somehow. Yeah, he was being handled, with no small amount of skill, by Sam and his magnificent cock, but he didn't mind. He wasn't out of control, he'd just handed control over to this amazing guy, who he somehow, instinctively trusted, who knew just exactly what to do with it. After a while though, it still wasn't enough to drive him over the edge. He needed more and he needed to be done with this, because it was getting to be too much. He reached for his dick, because Sam didn't seem inclined in the slightest to give him a reach around. Sam noticed what he was doing, where Dean's hands were heading. Sam grabbed one of Dean's wrists in each of his hands. 

Dean wasn't a small guy, but Sam's hands were huge, long. His fingers wrapped around Dean's wrists with a good inch or more of overlap. Sam trapped Dean's hands, laid them down on the desk and said, his voice low and rough with lust, "I'm the one making you come."

That went right to Dean's cock and he thought maybe he wouldn't need that reach around after all. He didn't try and struggle against Sam's grip on his wrists. He liked to think that if he needed to, he could get out of that grip and didn't want it proved to himself that he couldn't. If it was at all possible, Sam's thrusts grew more relentless and then, yeah, that was him crying out like a little girl as he came, splattering his belly with come and maybe some of the papers on Sam's desk too. Sam grunted and slammed himself into Dean for his last few thrusts. 

They both collapsed onto the desk. Dean could hardly breathe for the weight of the man on top of him, but he didn't care. He hadn't felt this just plain good for a long time and he going to savor every moment of it. 

Sam planted a kiss on the back of Dean's neck, right at the nape and he chuckled softly. He said, "Well, that was worth breaking rule number one."

"Rule number one?" 

"Never sleep with anyone that works for me."

"I never was much good at following the rules," Dean said, and with the moment sort of over, he elbowed Sam in the ribs to get off of him. After Sam pulled out, leaving Dean feeling kind of empty and wishing it hadn't been over so soon, Dean asked, "There rules two, three or four I could help you break too?"

"Rule three is always wrap my dick when I stick it in someone, rule four is never sleep with anyone I wouldn't want to look at over breakfast the next day, so I won't be breaking either of those."

"And rule two?" Dean asked.

"Remains to be seen if I'll be breaking that. I'd probably do it anyways," Sam said, but didn't say anything more. He dug into one of the desk drawers and pulled out a box of tissues. He decondomed himself, wrapped the used rubber up into a wad of tissue, passed the box to Dean, who grabbed a few to clean his belly and sop up the messed up papers. He hoped they weren't important. Then there was getting dressed. Dean had to go back out to the bar area to retrieve his pants and underwear.

"What's that tattoo?" Sam asked Dean, pointing to the anti-demonic possession charm that Dean had on his chest. It'd been hidden Dean's undershirt earlier and by the time Sam had gotten around to stripping him out of the undershirt, Dean had his back to Sam.

"You know, souvenir of a misspent youth," Dean said lightly. 

Like Sam had any room to talk. He had 'non timebo mala' inscribed permanently on his left hip. Suddenly, they were dressed and there wasn't anything for it but to go home.

Sam asked, "So, you coming home with me?"

"I don't know," Dean answered. "That depends. Am I going to get any sleep at all tonight if I go home with you?"

"Eventually," Sam promised. 

 

***


End file.
